As Normal as I'll Ever Be
by Avogadro's Minion
Summary: This is the sequel/follow-up/whatever you wish to call it to my earlier TNG story, No Need for Normal, though it can probably stand alone. While on course to a local Starbase, the Enterprise receives a distress call from a nearby planet, where they find a rather interesting child. Complete.
1. Chapter 1: Stop That God-Awful Racket

**Disclaimer:**_Star Trek: The Next Generation_ belongs to Gene Roddenberry and his minions. I don't own it, and am not making any money from it. It'd be really nice, but no.

**Chapter 1**

_Captain's Personal Log: Having been informed by Lieutenant Green that she is autistic, I must admit that I am quite curious, though I do not wish to pry. I was not aware that there were indeed people who choose not to cure what Dr. Crusher tells me is an easily treated condition. I remain concerned, however, about the possibility of her going into "autistic shutdown," as she calls it, during an emergency situation._

"Mr. Data, what is our estimated time of arrival to Starbase 718?" Captain Picard asked.

"Estimated time of arrival is four days, 19 hours, 27 minutes and 38.65…"

"Quite sufficient, Data." Picard sighed and shook his head. 'One of these days,' he thought to himself, 'I'm going to remember to specify "to the nearest minute."'

"Yes, sir." Data never could understand why humans often didn't want the most precise figure possible.

Before Data could muse further on the subject, the Enterprise was rocked by a horrible noise. It was somewhere between the sound of nails on a chalkboard and the high pitched whine of a siren, with overtones of static. "Merde," Jean-Luc Picard muttered under his breath, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. Worf let out a low growl. Will Riker gritted his teeth. Deanna Troi closed her eyes and tried—unsuccessfully—to block out everyone else's emotional reactions. Data remained calm, trying to understand just what it was about a complex high-frequency sound wave that had everyone else so upset. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything was still.

Ruthie Green stood with her fingers in her ears, desperately trying to block out the sound that was no longer there. Seeing that everyone else on the bridge had relaxed, she cautiously removed one finger and listened. The horrible screech was gone. One hand tapping compulsively on the wall, and bordering on hyperventilation, she desperately fought the urge to rock. "R-request permission to leave the bridge," she stammered, turning towards the viewscreen.

"Granted, Lieutenant," Picard replied evenly.

"Thank you, sir," she said, hurrying over to the turbolift.

The captain tapped his communicator badge. "Bridge to engineering, did you hear that noise?"

"Yes sir," came the voice of Geordi LaForge. "Like nails on a chalkboard, only more so."

"Quite. Do you know what caused it?"

"Working on it now, Captain."

"Very good, let me know what you find. Picard out." He turned towards Counselor Troi. "Counselor, would you please join me in my Ready Room?"

"Of course."

"Number One, you have the bridge," the captain said, as he and Troi walked across the bridge. "Please, sit down," he said, as they entered the room. Picard perched on the edge of his desk, while the counselor sat down in a nearby chair. "Counselor, what did you sense during that…ordeal?"

"I assume you mean in regard to Lieutenant Green in particular?"

"Yes."

"Well, everyone was stressed and agitated, myself included. But in Ruthie's case, I felt something more than that. I can only describe it as panic. Sheer panic."

"And after the noise stopped?"

"Most people calmed down, relieved. But Ruthie was still extremely agitated, barely in control of her reactions. She seemed ready to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. Hence her request to leave the bridge."

"Funny. She often seems nearly as unemotional as Data."

"No, there's a critical difference," Troi responded. "Data is truly unemotional; his program does not allow for feelings as we know them. In Ruthie's case, the emotions are there, she simply doesn't necessarily express them as a normal person would."

"Interesting. Thank you for your help, Counselor." Picard and Troi returned to the bridge.

As Picard sat down, Riker turned to speak with him. "That was just about the worst noise I've heard in a while."

"It most certainly was. I've never heard anything quite like it—and I hope to keep it that way."

Riker dropped his voice to a whisper. "With your permission sir, I'd like to go check on Lieutenant Green. She was shaking like a leaf."

"Good idea, Number One," Picard whispered back.

Riker walked over to the turbolift. "Deck 8," he said as the doors closed. They hissed open again as the lift arrived at its destination.

* * *

Finding the door he wanted, Riker sounded the chime and waited. "Come in," came a tired sounding voice from the other side. Riker walked through the door as it whispered open, squinting slightly as he looked around. His vision was excellent, but the lights had been dimmed a fair bit. Finally, he found the lieutenant sitting cross-legged in a chair in the corner. The chair was not a rocker, but its occupant most certainly was. The young officer rocked back and forth in her chair, the motion making Riker slightly dizzy. "Go ahead and sit down," she said, motioning to a nearby chair, on which a black cat snoozed. "Feel free to move the cat." She whistled. "Einstein…kss, kss, kss, kss, kss…" The cat got up and sauntered over to his mistress. She stopped rocking as the cat made himself comfortable in her lap.

Riker sat down. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right, Lieutenant. You seemed rather…upset on the bridge."

"A bit shaken up, Commander, but I'm fine. I just didn't want to make a scene on the bridge."

"A scene?" Riker asked, confused. He noticed that Ruthie wasn't looking him in the eye, but that was nothing unusual—she never did.

"I dislike rocking in public," Ruthie said wryly. "It attracts rather more attention than I really want. Often as not, that results in half the bridge crew crowding around trying to make sure I'm all right, making the situation even worse than it already is." Einstein got up and wandered off as Ruthie started rocking again.

"You're rocking again," Riker said gently, not sure if her views on "rocking in public" extended to conversations in her quarters.

Ruthie sighed. "Thanks," she replied, shaking her head, "but in my own quarters, I don't particularly care if there's an admiral sitting in the corner. If it bothers anybody that much, I'll be happy to speak to them elsewhere. But this is **my** space, and it's the one place on the ship where I don't have to care who's watching."

"I see. Are you concerned that people who haven't seen your medical file might jump to conclusions?" Riker made a mental note to tell Counselor Troi that a chat with the young lieutenant might be in order.

"Intellectually, no. They can jump to all the conclusions they like; what are they going to come up with that no one else has in 26 years? At this point, I don't really care anymore what the rest of the world thinks. When I came aboard the _Enterprise_, I made sure that the small handful of people who genuinely needed to know my neuro-medical history had access to it. Beyond that, I don't exactly advertise the fact that I'm autistic, but I don't go out of my way to keep it a secret either. The people whose opinions matter know; the rest are welcome to think what they will."

Riker grinned slightly as he considered this. He found it slightly surprising that the quiet, reserved young woman had developed this almost bad-girl attitude. Then again, it showed a healthy self-acceptance. She may have had her limitations, but she wasn't going to let anyone else's prejudices about them stand in her way.

"Emotionally, though?" Ruthie continued, "To tell you the truth, I get kinda tired of being considered a freak."

"Perfectly reasonable, particularly given that you aren't one," Riker replied. He checked his chronometer. "I really should be getting back to the bridge," he said, standing up.

"As should I," Ruthie replied, getting up as well. "Just a second." She opened a nearby drawer and pulled out a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses, just in case. She used one earpiece to clip them to the waistband of her pants and pulled the hem of her blue and black shirt down over the top lens. "After you, sir," she said, gesturing towards the door.

"Are you sure, Lieutenant? Everything back to normal?" Riker was concerned, having seen the panic in her eyes less than an hour ago when the ship's crew had been paralyzed by that high-pitched shriek.

"Normality is the number of equivalents per liter of solution, Commander," the young scientist replied with a slight smirk. "I'm as normal as I ever am," She shrugged. "Better get on up there."

"Ouch, bad pun," Riker laughed as the two officers walked over to the turbolift. Still, he was glad to see her back on sufficiently even footing to joke about it. The lift doors hissed open. "Bridge."

* * *

Picard glanced over his shoulder as the aft turbolift hissed open, expecting to see his first officer. He was slightly surprised to see that Riker was followed by Lieutenant Green. "Everything all right, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"I'm fine, sir." Though she did not look directly at him, the expression in her eyes convinced Picard to leave it at that. She returned to her usual position at one of the aft science stations, as Riker crossed the bridge to his seat.

"Engineering to bridge," came LaForge's voice.

The captain tapped his communicator. "Yes, Mr. LaForge, what is it?"

"I've found the cause of that shrieking noise. It seems that one of the local star systems, the _Saiti-Sooma_ system, emits extremely high levels of radio waves. Those waves interacted with our warp field to create an auditory disturbance." The engineer's voice was somewhat raised above the noise of the ship's warp core in the background.

"Any damage?"

"No, Captain. The radio waves are irritating beyond all description, but they're harmless to our deflectors."

"Good. Has anything similar ever been reported before?"

"No, sir. This appears to be a fluke. According to my calculations, the directional range for this effect is extremely narrow. If we had been heading three degrees off our present course, I doubt we would have heard it."

"Thank you, Commander Prepare a full report for Starfleet; they'll want to hear about it."

"Aye, sir."

"Bridge out." Picard tugged at the hem of his shirt as he settled back in his chair.

"Captain!" Worf said suddenly. "We are receiving a distress call from the Federation colony on the planet _Koshka IX_."

"On screen, main viewer," Picard snapped, bolting upright to face the main view screen at the front of the bridge.

"Aye, sir," the Klingon responded, tapping at the controls of the tactical console.

On the viewer, a fuzzy image appeared. There was a lot of static, and everything appeared to be shaking. "Help us, please," the man in front of the camera pleaded. "The ground is shaking, everything is falling apart. We won't last much longer; we're…" Someone in the background shouted "_Gospoda poshada_" just as the viewscreen went black; the planet's transmission device must have been damaged.

Picard's choice of action was clear. "Helm, set course for the _Ruibi_ system, Warp 7."

"Aye, sir," Wesley replied, tapping at his console. "Warp 7." The Enterprise zipped off towards _Koshka IX_.

"Wonder what the problem is," Riker commented. "I didn't see any signs of enemy fire. A natural disaster—earthquake maybe? I don't know if _Koshka IX_ is prone to seismic activity or not."

"It's a possibility, Number One," Picard replied.

"I'll see what information we have about the planet, Captain," Ruthie said, tapping into the ship's library.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Data, what is our estimated time of arrival at the planet?"

"One hour, 40 minutes, sir"

"Good. Thank you for rounding that to the nearest minute, by the way."

"I did not round it, sir. That was the exact time, accurate to within two milliseconds."

"Nevermind," Picard sighed, realizing he probably shouldn't have asked. "What does '_Gospoda poshada_'mean, I wonder?" he mused.

"It is a Russian phrase, sir."

Picard turned in his chair to face his chief of security. "Oh?"

"It means 'God have mercy.'"


	2. Chapter 2: One to Beam Up

**Chapter 2**

_Captain's Log: The _Enterprise_, formerly en route to Starbase 718, has been called off track. We have received a distress call from a Federation colony on the planet _Koshka IX _in the _Ruibi_system, resulting, we believe, from some kind of natural disaster, possibly seismic in nature. We will not know more until we arrive. Meanwhile our engineering crew and chief medical officer will be making preparations for a broad array of possible situations._

Picard tugged at the hem of his shirt, then tapped his communicator. "Bridge to sickbay."

A few seconds later, a woman's voice responded. "Dr. Crusher here. What is it?"

"We've received a distress call from a nearby planet. We're going to need an emergency medical team in about an hour and a half."

"I'm on it, Captain. Keep me posted."

"Of course, Doctor. Bridge out." Satisfied, Picard settled back in his command chair. There was little more that he could do until they got closer.

"I've found some information on _Koshka IX_, Captain."

Picard turned to face the young scientist, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

She turned towards him, though he noticed that she did not look him in the eye. "Class M planet – no history of tectonic activity within the colony's records, but early colonists located a chain of extinct volcanoes, so seismic activity is definitely a possibility. And it looks like there's a fault line running right underneath the Federation outpost."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." He sighed and got up. "I'll be in my ready room. You have the bridge, Number One." He walked across the bridge and disappeared into his ready room.

* * *

An hour later, Picard emerged and took up his seat again in the command chair. "Now approaching _Koshka IX_, sir," Worf reported. "I'm not reading any other ships in the area."

"Thank you, Mr. Worf. Helm, bring us into geosynchronous orbit over the colony," Picard ordered.

"Aye sir. Geosynchronous orbit," Wesley replied, tapping at his console.

"Sir," Worf interjected, "I am attempting to contact the colony, but I'm getting no response. Their equipment must be down."

"Then let's beam down and find out what's going on down there," Riker responded. "Worf, Data, you're with me." The three of them strode rapidly towards the turbolift. "Transporter deck," Riker said as the doors slid shut. He tapped his communicator badge. "Riker to Dr. Crusher, please have your medical team meet us in transporter room 4."

"We're on our way, Commander," came the doctor's reply.

The two teams converged in the transporter room. "I'm beaming you into the center of the village," Miles O'Brien explained. "Be careful; if there's seismic activity at the moment of transport, you could lose your balance."

"Understood," Riker acknowledged, as the last person stepped onto the pad. "Energize." The air shimmered and danced around the seven-member team in glittering columns as transport began.

* * *

The air shimmered in the village square as the away team materialized. There was debris everywhere, and most of the buildings were in bad shape, though few had actually collapsed. The shell-shocked colonists were beginning to come out to see what was left of their homes. Data pulled out his tricorder, as the medical team dispersed to treat the injured colonists. "I'm picking up very little seismic activity at present, but the previous quake measured around a 7.3 on Earth's Richter scale."

"That's a pretty big quake," Riker said, whistling.

Data nodded. "And you should also be aware that quakes of this magnitude result in a very high probability of aftershocks."

"Damn," Riker muttered. "Now what?" But his years in Starfleet had taught him to think quickly. He tapped his communicator. "Riker to _Enterprise_."

"This is the _Enterprise_," Picard answered. "What have you found, Commander?"

"There's been some major seismic activity down here. It's quiet now, but Commander Data says we're likely to see some aftershocks. Recommend we beam survivors up to the ship until we can decide what to do long-term."

"Make it so, Number One. _Enterprise_ out."

* * *

The medical team was treating a lot of concussions and broken bones. As soon as patients were stabilized, they were beamed aboard the _Enterprise_. Critical cases were beamed straight to the ship's sickbay, where the assistant chief medical officer was standing by, maintaining an open comm link with Dr. Crusher.

Meanwhile, the away team scrambled through the rubble, freeing colonists who had been trapped under falling debris and getting them beamed back to the ship as well. Five hours after they had beamed down to the surface, the away team approached the last house in the village. "I am picking up life sign readings," Data said, looking up from his tricorder.

"The door is stuck," Worf said, grunting in exertion as he tried it. He stepped aside. Data returned his tricorder to his belt and forced the door open.

The officers walked in and carefully looked around. A woman, perhaps 30 years old, was lying facedown under a pile of rubble. Riker hurried over and felt for a pulse. "She's alive. Unconscious, and her pulse is shaky, but alive." He tapped his communicator. "Riker to Dr. Crusher."

"Dr. Crusher here. What is it Will?"

"We've got a potential medical emergency." Worf and Data cleared away the fallen debris on top of her as Riker spoke.

"I'll be right there. Transporter chief, lock me onto his signal." The air near Riker shimmered as Dr. Crusher materialized and hurried over to the woman. "She's got a nasty concussion and some internal bleeding in the lower extremities, but she's not critical yet," the doctor said, putting down her tricorder. "Transporter chief, beam her directly to sickbay." The air glittered as the unconscious woman disappeared.

A noise in the next room attracted the team's attention. Riker eased the door open, and the four officers walked in. A small child sat on the floor, holding a teddy bear. When he saw the adults, he immediately hid behind a chair, rocking slightly.

Dr. Crusher crouched down to his eye level. "It's all right," she called. "We're here to help you." The little boy winced and covered his ears, as if the sound had hurt him. He kept on rocking. She tried to approach him, but he ducked further out of sight.

The doctor walked back towards the away team, motioning them out of the room. "It's no use," she said. "He's terrified. I doubt he'll even let me get close enough to use a tricorder, let alone beam him back to the ship."

"Chief O'Brien could probably get a lock on him without one of us nearby," Worf pointed out.

Dr. Crusher shook her head. "Yes, but I don't want to stress him unnecessarily. If he's this upset in his own home, imagine what suddenly finding himself on a starship would do."

"We cannot remain here much longer, however," Data interrupted, studying his tricorder. "I am detecting a buildup in seismic activity. I predict another quake within two hours."

"Damn." The doctor's expletive seemed to cover the situation pretty neatly.

"Wait." The rest of the group turned toward Riker, realizing that the first officer had been silent for several minutes, lost in thought. "Something about this seems familiar somehow…Where have I seen this before?" He thought for a moment. "Of course. Worf, Data, make sure there's nobody else in the house. Dr. Crusher, keep an eye on the child. If you feel any tremors, beam everyone up immediately. I think I know of someone who can help." He tapped his communicator. "Riker to _Enterprise_. One to beam up." The air shimmered and he was gone.

* * *

Riker strode onto the bridge covered in dirt and dust and a few small scratches, but little the worse for wear.

"Is there a problem, Number One?" Picard asked, knowing full well that if there hadn't been a problem, his first officer would have taken the time to change into clean clothes and remove the dirt smeared across his face.

"Not yet," Riker replied, "but in about two hours there will be. Captain, may I speak to you and Lieutenant Green for a moment?"

"Of course." Riker and Ruthie followed Picard across the bridge to his ready room. "What's the trouble, Commander?" Picard asked once they had sat down.

"There's a child down there, scared out of his wits."

"One can hardly blame him for that," Picard interrupted. "And I doubt he's the only one."

"Agreed, on both counts. But he hides every time we try to approach him, we can't get near him. And Commander Data says we can expect another quake within two hours."

"That is a problem, Number One," Picard agreed.

"Where do I come in, Commander?" Ruthie asked.

"I'm no expert, Lieutenant, but I think he might be autistic," Riker replied. "He's rocking, and he's squinting even though the light isn't that bright. He isn't making eye contact, either. And he covers his ears when we try to talk to him, as if the noise hurts his ears. It reminded me of the way you reacted this morning to the radio disturbance. No offense intended."

"None taken, Commander," Ruthie replied. "It sounds like he probably does have some form of autism or something similar. And, even if he doesn't, the solution is probably more or less the same."

"I was hoping you could give us some tips for approaching him."

Ruthie sighed and shook her head. "I could. But no list that I or anyone else could give you will substitute for experience. That takes considerably more time than we have. I can only think of one practical solution."

Riker looked at her expectantly; he had a pretty good guess of what she was going to say. "What's that?"

Ruthie straightened up in her chair. "Request permission to join the away team."

Riker's guess had been correct; he'd been afraid it might come down to this. "Are you supposed to be on away missions with that broken wrist, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking pointedly at the wrist brace Ruthie was wearing.

"Probably not," she shrugged, glancing at the brace. Then for the first time, her green eyes met Riker's blue ones, much to his surprise. "I'll deal with the consequences of that later, Commander. Right now there's a little boy down there, and it sounds like he's probably in total meltdown mode. I've been there, and it's not something I'd wish on my worst enemy, let alone a child. My own stupidity can wait. I want to get that child up here without causing him any more stress. We're running out of time."

Riker considered that a moment, then sighed and tapped his communicator. "Riker to Dr. Crusher."

"Dr. Crusher here."

"Does Lieutenant Green have your permission to beam down to the surface?"

The doctor considered this a moment. "Ideally, no, she shouldn't. But we're running out of both options and time, and she's probably our best bet. And I expect she's probably being rather insistent." She sighed. "I suppose it's fine as long as she doesn't try to lift anything." Riker raised a questioning eyebrow at Ruthie.

"Don't worry, Sir, I'll be good," Ruthie said, rolling her eyes. "We'd better get down there, we don't have a lot of time and I doubt I can do this in five minutes."

"Fine. Permission granted. Let's go." The two officers strode towards the turbolift, barely hearing Picard call, "Good luck." Just as they reached the lift, Riker turned to Ruthie. "Have you got everything you need?"

"Yes."

"Good," he said as the doors hissed closed. "Transporter deck."

* * *

As the officers hurried toward the transporter room, Ruthie took out the sunglasses that had been clipped to her waistband and put them on. "What are those for?" Riker asked.

"I don't know how people stand to look at transporter beams," she said with a sheepish grin. "Ouch." They turned and walked into the transporter room, meeting the other three medical team members on their way out.

"I'm beaming you back to the same coordinates you just beamed up from, Commander," O'Brien explained, tapping at the console as Riker and Ruthie stepped up onto the pad. "Energize."


	3. Chapter 3: All Aboard!

**Chapter 3**

_Captain's Log, Supplemental:The _Enterprise_is currently engaged in a rescue mission after some major seismic activity on the Federation planet _Koshka IX_. Fortunately, according to our medical team, there have been very few fatalities. Survivors have been beamed aboard the ship until we can find a permanent solution. One of the children on the planet appears to be autistic, and the away team has had trouble approaching him; Lieutenant Green has beamed down to the surface to see if she can be of assistance._

The air shimmered and danced as Riker and Ruthie materialized. "Any change?" Riker asked.

"No, sir," Data replied. "There is no one else in the house, and there have been no noticeable tremors."

Ruthie took off her sunglasses, and re-clipped them to her waistband. She glanced over at the other officers, not making eye contact with anyone. "Okay," she said, her voice lower than usual, almost musical. "Keep your voices down," she instructed. "You don't need to whisper—but don't shout. Ten centimeter voices, as my kindergarten teacher used to say," she added with a small smile. "All right." She took a deep breath. "Where is the child?"

"In there," Dr. Crusher answered, pointing at the open door into the next room.

"Okay," Ruthie replied. "Give us a little space, and I'll see what I can do." She walked over and sat down cross-legged in the middle of the room. She stuck her fingers in her ears, though there wasn't that much noise, and began to rock. She closed her eyes. Ordinarily, this would indicate that she was trying to block out the world around her and escape to a world of her own creation, but in this instance she was very much alert. This meltdown was a façade, meant to convince a young boy that she understood—that she was "one of us."

Twenty minutes later, the child crawled out from behind a chair and sat down beside the lieutenant, putting a hand on her shoulder. He seemed concerned, looking up at her with wide eyes. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

Opening her eyes, Ruthie stopped rocking and removed her fingers from her ears. "Hi," she said quietly, still keeping her voice low. "I'm okay. What's your name?" She was very careful not to force eye contact.

"Misha."

"My name's Ruthie. How old are you, Misha?"

"Four," he said, holding up four fingers.

"Four's a great age." Ruthie noticed he seemed to be staring straight past her, but then, she had expected as much. She rose up on one knee, as if about to propose, wincing painfully as she braced herself on her right hand out of habit, then set Misha on her knee. Her left arm was firmly, but not uncomfortably, wrapped around his shoulders. "All right," she said quietly, turning towards the door, "come on in. This is Misha." As the other officers entered the room, she turned back to Misha. "We're going to need to take you back to our starship, okay, Misha?"

He looked hesitant. "Can Nikolai come too?" he asked, hugging his teddy bear.

"Is Nikolai your teddy bear?" Ruthie asked. Misha nodded. "Of course he can," she replied, smiling gently. "Have you ever used a transporter beam before?" The boy shook his head. "All right, it might feel a little funny," Ruthie explained. She took her sunglasses off her waistband with her free hand. "Here, put these on; it makes it a little easier." Ruthie looked up at Dr. Crusher, who was standing behind her. "I assume you want to see Misha in sickbay?"

"Definitely," the doctor replied in a low voice. 'I want to see you in sickbay, too,' she thought to herself. She had noticed Ruthie's wince, and that she was now carrying her right wrist close to her body.

Ruthie nodded and half-turned to look up at Riker. "Can you beam us directly there, Commander?"

"Of course." Riker nodded. He assumed that the lieutenant was probably trying to minimize stress to Misha. No sense in leading him hither and yon all over the _Enterprise_ if it wasn't necessary. Guided tours could wait.

"Ready when you are," Ruthie said, closing her eyes since Misha was using her sunglasses.

"_Enterprise_, six to beam directly to sickbay." The air shimmered and they were gone.

* * *

Six figures materialized in sickbay. Ruthie set Misha down, and stood up, stretching lightly on the balls of her feet. She noticed that Misha was shaking himself a little, much like a wet dog. "Told ya it might feel a little funny," she said, laughing. "You may want to give him a few minutes to acclimate, Doctor," she said as Worf and Data left to return to the bridge. "If he is autistic, transitions are likely to be hard on him."

"All right," Dr. Crusher replied, pulling out her tricorder. She turned toward Riker for a moment. "Could you keep an eye on Misha for a few minutes, Commander?" The first officer nodded. She turned back towards Ruthie. "Let's have a look at you first then, Ruthie."

"What? I'm fine," Ruthie protested, still keeping her wrist close, as if her arm were in a sling.

"That's what they all say," Dr. Crusher replied dryly, rolling her eyes. She pointed at the examining table. "Now, Lieutenant," she said firmly. "Or do I have to sedate you first?"

That got Ruthie moving. "All right," she sighed, using her good hand to hoist herself up. "I'm fine, really."

"I heard you the first time, Ruthie. I've also heard of your tendency to 'feel fine' when you aren't," Dr. Crusher replied, gently rolling up her patient's sleeve.

Ruthie winced, then grinned sheepishly. "Guilty as charged," she sighed. "How'd you manage to hear about that? I haven't even been aboard the _Enterprise_ a week yet."

"I contacted Dr. Ray on Starbase Mendeleyev to tear him a new one about keeping his records up to date," the doctor replied, studying her tricorder readout. Frowning, she set down the tricorder. Ruthie grimaced as Dr. Crusher carefully unfastened the wrist brace to take a closer look underneath. Then the doctor picked up an osteogenic stimulator. "I thought I made it clear that you weren't to lift anything, Lieutenant," she said sternly, raising an eyebrow.

Silence reigned for several minutes. Then Ruthie sighed. "You did. It wasn't because I beamed down to the planet. It could just as easily have happened in my own quarters, tying my shoe."

"What did happen, exactly?" Dr. Crusher asked as she re-stabilized the fractured ulna.

"Stupid mistake. I'm right-handed. I was getting up from the floor, and balanced my weight on my right hand. Sheer force of habit," she said sheepishly. She flinched involuntarily as the doctor put the brace back on, drawing her hand back slightly. "Ouch."

"Sorry. Now hold still," the doctor chided gently. "That explains it."

"How did you know? I hadn't said anything about it."

"You should have," the doctor replied in a slightly accusatory tone, raising an eyebrow. "But, to answer your question, you've been favoring that hand ever since we beamed back, for starters. And people who are 'just fine' don't generally wince like that. If you're not careful, Ruthie, I'm going to tell you to stay off the floor too," she added, smiling. She took a hypospray out of the pocket of her lab coat and injected it into Ruthie's shoulder. "That should take care of it. Just fine, my eye."

"You're right. My profound apologies, Doctor." Ruthie slid down from the edge of the table, walked across the room, and took Misha by the hand. "Your turn," she said with a smile, leading him back to the examining table. She was about to pick him up, but was interrupted.

"I don't think so, Lieutenant," the doctor said, hands on her hips.

"Oops, forgot. Again."

"Up you go, Misha," Riker said, setting the child on the examining table as the doctor picked up her tricorder.

"A few minor cuts and bruises from the quake, nothing more serious than that," the doctor said in surprise, looking up from her tricorder. She thought a moment. "Where were you when the ground was shaking, Misha?"

"Under my bed. It was too loud, so I hid from the noise…but it still found me," Misha replied, still not looking at any of the officers in the room.

"That explains it," Dr. Crusher said, turning to Riker and Ruthie. "The mattress must have protected him from impact from all the falling rubble." She turned back to her tricorder. "Come over here for a minute, Ruthie. I need a neurological basis of comparison." She reached for a second tricorder as Ruthie walked over. A tricorder in each hand, she scanned both patients. "Sure enough," she said, comparing the readings. She waved over one of her nurses. "Misha, are you hungry?" the doctor asked, smiling.

Misha nodded. "Uh-huh. I'm as hungry as a goose that's never eaten that's four years old." He was smiling broadly, though he still wasn't looking anyone in the eye.

Dr. Crusher smiled at the child's analogy, not so very different from the ones that Wesley had once used. Wesley's analogies had always tended more towards alligators and crocodiles. She gently lifted Misha off the table. "In that case, why doesn't Nurse Miller take you to get something to eat?" The nurse took the boy by the hand and walked over to the replicator, as Dr. Crusher motioned Riker and Ruthie into her office. "Ordinarily, diagnosing autism requires a fairly large set of tests, as you probably well know, Ruthie."

Ruthie nodded. "It's been nearly twenty years…but, yes, I remember."

"Under the circumstances, I don't want to put Misha through that right now," the doctor continued. "However, his neurological abnormalities are consistent with Ruthie's. I think a tentative diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome is justified."

"Thank you, Doctor," Riker replied. He turned to Ruthie. "I'll see you back on the bridge, Lieutenant." With that, he went off in search of a clean shirt before returning to duty.

Ruthie turned to face Dr. Crusher, though she did not look the doctor in the eye. "What happens to Misha now?" she asked.

"Well, his mother should be waking up soon. At that point, we'll give them quarters aboard the ship along with the rest of the survivors."

"And after that?" Ruthie looked insistent.

The doctor had a pretty good guess of what Ruthie was getting at. "I don't know, Ruthie."

"He needs to be allowed to make that decision for himself when the time comes. He has that right." Too distracted and upset to be paying much attention, Ruthie began rocking again.

Though Ruthie hadn't specified which decision she meant, Dr. Crusher understood exactly what she was getting at. She shook her head. "I don't know what his parents will decide, or even if he has a preexisting diagnosis or not. We'll have to wait and see, Ruthie." The doctor walked over and gently put a hand on the young lieutenant's shoulder. "Are you doing all right?"

Noticing that she was rocking, Ruthie stopped. "I-I-I'm fine. I-I'd better get back up to the bridge." She turned to go.

"Not so fast, Lieutenant," the doctor interrupted, arms folded across her chest. "Are you fine or are you 'fine'?"

Ruthie sighed. "I'm all right. Really." She noticed the doctor's questioning glance. "This is part of day-to-day life for me. It's something I've learned to live with."

"Are you sure?" the doctor asked. The only response was a nod. "All right. If you're back to normal."

"As normal as I'm ever going to be." Ruthie shrugged. "Normal isn't a concept I have much use for unless it involves titrations, Doctor. I'll see you around." With that, she walked out of sickbay.

* * *

The turbolift doors hissed open, and Ruthie stepped onto the bridge, heading for her usual science station.

"There you are, Lieutenant," Riker remarked. "I'd been wondering where you were."

"I earned myself a lecture from Dr. Crusher, Sir."

"I should've guessed," Riker replied, shaking his head.


	4. Chapter 4: Theory of the Mind

**Chapter 4**

_Captain's Log, Supplemental: We have now evacuated all of the colonists from _Koshka IX_and have given them temporary quarters aboard the _Enterprise_. I have scheduled a meeting of my senior staff at 1900 hours to discuss what to do from here._

Her duty shift over, Ruthie walked into her quarters. She went over to the replicator and made a cup of peppermint tea. Sitting down with it, she pulled out a book and began to read. Einstein sauntered over and jumped into her lap, purring loudly.

Twenty minutes later, the door chime sounded. "It's open," Ruthie called, looking up from her book. She smiled and shook her head. "I'm all right, honest," she said as Dr. Crusher walked into the room. "Feel free to sit down." She gestured towards an empty chair nearby.

"It's not about that," the doctor replied with a smile as she dropped into the chair. "What's that you're reading?"

"_Lord of the Rings_. I fear I'm rather spoiled," she said, grinning as she set the book aside. "I grew up near the Library of Congress. I'm afraid digital media just can't compare to the real thing."

"You and the captain both," Dr. Crusher replied, laughing. "Which brings me to what I wanted to ask you about. Captain Picard has called a senior staff meeting to discuss the situation with the colony, and Misha is likely to come up. You probably know more about autism than anyone else on the ship. The captain and I were wondering if you'd like to attend?"

"Definitely," Ruthie replied.

"This is likely to make your autism essentially public knowledge among the senior staff though, just so you understand," the doctor pointed out.

"Eh, after my little performance on the bridge this morning, anyone who was there probably realizes that something's up. I'd rather they hear the whole story from me than try to assemble bits and pieces of it." Ruthie shrugged her shoulders. "When is the meeting?"

"In about ten minutes," Dr. Crusher answered.

"Excellent," Ruthie replied, as she gently set the cat on the floor and got up. She brushed a few black cat hairs off the front of her shirt. "Let's get going." The two women headed for the observation lounge.

* * *

A group was beginning to gather in the observation lounge. Picard sat at one end of the table, with Riker and Counselor Troi sitting on one side and Worf and Data sitting on the other. Geordi walked in, carrying a PADD, and dropped into a chair beside Data. "What is that, Geordi?" Data asked.

"My findings on the disturbance from this morning."

"Already?" Picard asked. "That was very fast."

"It's not finished yet," Geordi replied. "That's just the draft; it still needs a lot of work."

"Are you naming this new phenomenon after yourself, Geordi?" Riker teased.

The chief engineer shrugged. "I've just been calling it the _Saiti-Sooma_ phenomenon."

"A very…appropriate name." Everyone turned to face Worf. "_Saiti sooma_ is Russian for 'to go out of one's mind."

Everyone in the room (except Data) burst out laughing. "Sounds like an excellent name to me," Picard remarked.

"I think that's the name I'll be suggesting to Starfleet in my report," Geordi laughed. At that moment Dr. Crusher and Ruthie walked into the room.

"I think that's everyone," Picard remarked as the newcomers found seats at the table. "We need to decide what our options are for the _Koshka IX_ colonists."

"Is it possible for them to return to the planet once we're sure all of the aftershocks have passed?" Riker asked, guessing that that was the option the colonists themselves would prefer, if it were available.

"Probably not," Geordi replied. "According to our data, seismic activity on this planet runs in cycles, and we're just coming out of a stable phase. We can expect more quakes like this one on _Koshka IX _for about the next hundred years."

"What _can_ we do?" Dr. Crusher asked, coming straight to the point.

"Well... there _is_ an uninhabited class K planet, _Ruibi VII_ in this system. The climate is very similar to that on _Koshka IX_, ideal for agriculture," Geordi said. Something in his tone, however, implied that this solution may not be as perfect as it first appeared.

"What's the catch, Geordi?" Riker asked.

"They'll need more supplies to establish a colony there than we have on hand or can replicate, and it's still months until planting season," the chief engineer answered. "It's perfect in the long run, but we need somewhere for them to go **now**."

"Why not just take them with us to Starbase 718? Another ship can meet them with supplies and bring them back to _Ruibi VII_ closer to planting season," Ruthie suggested.

"That sounds reasonable," Riker agreed.

"Agreed," Picard replied. "Make it so." He turned towards Dr. Crusher. "How is your young patient, Doctor?"

"Misha's fine; he wasn't seriously hurt. His mother woke up a few hours ago. His father came down to sickbay looking for them; we've got them in quarters now."

"Is he autistic?" Picard asked.

"If you mean, 'does he have a pre-existing diagnosis,' no, he doesn't. But, based on comparative neurology, I think that he probably is."

"Didn't they find a cure for that a few years ago?" Geordi asked.

"Nine years ago," Data replied. "Researchers at Oxford University discovered a way to reverse the neurological effects of autism."

"They did," Dr. Crusher acknowledged. "But it's not as simple as that. There are some ethical considerations."

"Ethical considerations?" Worf asked. "Like what?"

"Lt. Green is probably better qualified to explain it than I am," the doctor replied, gesturing towards the young lieutenant seated across from her.

"Most people think of autism as a condition or a disease, something that needs to be 'fixed'," Ruthie began.

"It isn't?" Worf asked.

"It depends on who you ask," Ruthie shrugged. "I see it as a way of life—and the only life I've ever known."

"You're autistic?" Geordi asked.

"Yes," Ruthie answered. "Autism is more than just a neurological condition, it's hard-wired into the brain. It affects how we think, how we act, how we feel, how we react to different situations. Changing that is like changing personality. If you make us neurotypical, you make us completely different people. And the 'cure' is permanent. Even if you hate the results, it's impossible to go back." She sighed. "It's not a choice anyone can make for somebody else, not even with the best of intentions."

"One presumes, then, that you were given that choice?" Data asked.

"By default. By the time they found a cure, I was 17, and old enough that no one could force it on me. I doubt my parents would have, though, even if I'd been younger."

"Are you suggesting we should let Misha decide for himself?" Picard asked.

"Eventually, yes. But a four year old, neurotypical or not, isn't capable of making that decision."

"Is the cure's effectiveness dependent on age?" Geordi asked.

"According to current research, no," Ruthie replied. "We're seeing the same results whether it's administered at age 50 or at age 2."

"Are the child's parents aware of the existence of a cure?" Worf asked.

"Probably not," Dr. Crusher replied. "_Koshka IX_ is rather out of the way, and both Misha's parents were born there."

"I'm rather inclined to agree with you, Ruthie," Riker said. "But I think we have an obligation to tell them about the cure."

"Agreed," Picard replied.

Ruthie sighed. "I was afraid of that. I don't like it, but…" She paused. "You're right." She rubbed her eyes. "May I speak with Misha's parents?" Ruthie asked. "I feel like they have a right to know exactly what they're deciding."

"Good idea, Lieutenant," Picard replied.

"If you don't mind my asking, Ruthie, how did you get Misha to come right up to you like that?" Riker asked, glancing in her direction.

"It's an autistic thing. It involves Theory of the Mind."

"Theory of the Mind?" Geordi asked, looking quizzically at Ruthie.

"It's a psychological concept," Troi explained. "It involves the ability to pick up on someone else's thoughts and emotions. Without telepathy – as far as Theory of the Mind goes, that's cheating."

"It was a very popular autistic theory in the late 20th and early 21rst centuries," Ruthie explained, "there are still psychologists arguing about it. The idea is that autistics don't have Theory of the Mind because we have a hard time understanding neurotypicals. Misha just disproved that. Autistics do have Theory of the Mind, it's just a different theory."

"Different theory?" Riker asked. "What do you mean?"

"Neurotypicals understand each other just fine. But contrary to what a lot of people think, they don't generally read autistics very well. Likewise, autistics usually have a very difficult time reading neurotypicals. But we understand each other fine." Ruthie shrugged. "I think most creatures probably have it, really." She paused. "When I was little, my brother and I used to love to go down to the pond on our grandparents' farm to feed the ducks. Some of them were white domestic ducks who lived on the farm all year round, and others were mallards who had stopped on the farm in search of open water during their migrations. But they all freely intermingled. Despite looking very different, they understood that they were all ducks. They dove the same way, waddled the same way, quacked the same way, and voilá. If it **looks** like a duck, and it **walks** like a duck, and it **talks** like a duck, then logically, it must **be** a duck."

"How did you use this 'Theory of the Mind' down on the planet, Lieutenant?" Data asked, looking quizzically at Ruthie.

"I used a stim I knew Misha was prone to. From what I'd been told, I could infer that he tends to rock when he's stressed out. Consequently, if he sees someone rocking, and obviously trying to block out noise, he's likely to assume that they're stressed and upset. He can empathize with this; he's going to want to help anyone in that situation. So when he saw me rocking, he came over to see if I was all right."

"So," Riker began, "by rocking and covering your ears…"

"…I was saying 'I understand, and I need your help,'" Ruthie finished. "It's sort of like a 'Universal Autistic'. Most of us stim, so it's something we can understand and interpret according to a given situation."

"Wait," Riker said. "Are you saying that normal people can't interpret people with autism's body language?"

"No, no," Ruthie replied. "They can. But it's not something you can learn in a day. It takes years of experience. And, even then, it doesn't come naturally, any more than reading neurotypicals comes naturally to autistics. My parents, for instance, or my brother could do it. But they've been living with me for 26 years. They didn't pick it up in an afternoon." Ruthie absently rubbed her wrist; it was aching again.

"I see," Riker replied. "Out of curiosity, do you know why Misha seemed so disoriented after transport?"

"Like I told him, transporters feel funny," Ruthie replied. The rest of the crew looked at her in confusion. "You can't feel it?" she asked, surprised. Head shakes all around the table. "Hmm. I'd always assumed that everyone could. Misha certainly did."

"I wonder why that is," Dr. Crusher mused.

"My guess would be that either it's an overstimulation issue, or the matter-energy conversion process triggers random neuron misfire," Ruthie replied. "That would probably explain why we feel it and you don't." Ruthie paused. "Looking at the energy beam may have had something to do with it too. Even with sunglasses, it's difficult to look at."

"How did you cope without the sunglasses, Ruthie?" Dr. Crusher asked.

"Closed my eyes," Ruthie answered with a shrug. "It actually works better than the sunglasses. But, for obvious reasons, I don't like to do that unless I know exactly where I'm going to end up."

"Very wise," Riker replied. "Do you know why Misha wasn't looking at anybody?"

Ruthie shrugged. "I would've been very surprised if he had. You may have noticed that I generally don't." She apparently had not picked up on the "why" part of the question.

"Why is that, Ruthie?" Dr. Crusher asked, since the lieutenant hadn't really answered Riker's question.

"It's stressful, difficult, and, for some people, physically painful. I'm capable of it," she said, catching the doctor's eye for a few seconds to prove her point, "but it requires my full attention—I can't do anything else while I'm doing it, to include carry on a conversation. And since my version of eye contact is an intense, rather catlike stare, most people find it somewhat creepy when I try. So I don't generally do it unless it's critically important that I catch someone's attention. At four years old, I doubt it's even occurred to Misha that he should try." Though the room wasn't particularly cold, Ruthie shuddered suddenly.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Picard asked.

"I'm fine, Captain," Ruthie replied with a small smile. "That just happens occasionally. I'm sure it's related to the autism somehow, but I have no idea what causes it."

"I think that's everything," the captain remarked. "Meeting dismissed."

Ruthie went back to her quarters and collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to change out of her uniform. She fell into a sound sleep in minutes, Einstein purring on her back.


	5. Chapter 5: Information and Options

**Chapter 5**

_Captain's Log, Supplemental: I have now spoken to the leaders of the _Koshka IX _colony, and they agree that relocation to _Ruibi VII _is the best long-term option for the colony. Though not overly enthusiastic about the idea, they have also agreed to come with us to _Starbase 718 _until the _USS Infinity _arrives next month with the necessary supplies to establish a permanent colony on the new planet._

Commander Riker stepped onto the bridge and sank down into his chair beside the captain. He sighed, grateful to be back to the relative sanity of the bridge. "It's like herding cats," he observed wryly.

Picard nodded; he'd dealt with similar situations before. "How are the colonists handling the transfer?"

"We've allowed one member of each family to beam down to the planet to retrieve whatever they may need to from their homes. They've all got temporary communicator badges so that Chief O'Brien can get a lock on them quickly in an emergency." The first officer seemed to fidget slightly, and then removed a wisp of straw from the back of his his collar. "We've put some hay down in Cargo Bay 3 for the colony's livestock; I wouldn't recommend going down there unless you like cows. Cats and dogs are being kept with families in their quarters."

"It sounds like the situation is well under control, Number One. Thank you." Picard sighed. Not overly fond of either cattle or chaos, he was very glad he wasn't the one trying to coordinate the transfer.

In Transporter Room 4, Chief O'Brien was transporting colonists back and forth between the _Enterprise_ and the abandoned colony, as they retrieved livestock and possessions from their homes, and put final bouquets of fresh flowers on the graves of lost loved ones in the colony's old cemetery. Meanwhile, Ruthie worked at a secondary console nearby, monitoring seismic activity on the planet. Their orders were to transport all of the colonists back to the _Enterprise_ in the event of tremors registering above a 2.7 on the Richter scale. For the time being, though, the ground beneath the colony was quiet. After several hours, and a few minor mishaps mostly involving cows being beamed to the transporter room instead of the cargo bay, the last colonist (and the last cow) had returned to the _Enterprise_. Ruthie sighed. "Y'know, I'm not sure I ever want to see another cow again," she said, laughing.

"Here's to that," O'Brien replied, laughing as well.

Still giggling as she left the transporter room, Ruthie headed down to sickbay, with a slight spring in her step. Her duty shift was over, and she and Dr. Crusher planned to go talk to Misha's parents. She found the doctor sitting at her desk, updating medical records.

Dr. Crusher looked up from her work as she heard the lieutenant enter. "Ready to go, Ruthie?" she asked.

"Whenever you are," Ruthie replied.

The two women left sickbay. "Deck 11," Dr. Crusher said as they stepped onto the turbolift. The lift hissed open as it stopped at the specified deck.

* * *

As the two officers stepped off and rounded a bend in the corridor, they heard a small commotion coming the other direction—a large group of preschoolers was coming down the corridor. Ruthie sidestepped just in time to avoid being run into by Misha, who wasn't watching where he was going. "Easy there, Misha," she laughed. "You need to be looking the same direction you're running, or you'll fall."

"Ok, Ruthie," the little boy replied, laughing along with her. "Guess what? We're going to go play football!"

Ruthie smiled. Misha still didn't seem to be making eye contact (no surprise there), but it certainly looked like he was having a good time. "Neat!" she replied. "Have fun."

"With all of the extra children we have right now, the nursery was getting rather crowded," the teacher explained "so we're taking them to play soccer down on the holodeck."

"I'll believe it," Dr. Crusher replied, laughing.

Ruthie and Dr. Crusher continued along the corridor until they reached the door they needed. The doctor sounded the chime and waited.

"Come in," a man answered from inside. Two young colonists, 25 or so years old, faced the Starfleet officers as they entered. These were clearly Misha's parents; there was a definite family resemblance, particularly between Misha and his father. "Good morning," they said. They seemed slightly surprised at having visitors.

"Good morning. I'm Dr. Beverly Crusher, and this is Lieutenant Ruthie Greene." The doctor held out a hand, and Ruthie followed suit. Social skills weren't one of Ruthie's strengths, and she figured she was probably best off following the doctor's lead for now.

"I'm Sergei Lyetikov, and this is my wife Sofia. How do you do?" Sergei was tall with dark hair, gentle brown eyes, and a pleasant tenor. Sofia was soft-spoken with light brown hair and dark blue eyes, seemingly as deep as the sea. After handshakes and various other polite niceties, the group sat down to talk over a plate of cookies and a pot of tea.

Dr. Crusher sighed. She wasn't quite sure how to begin. "If you don't mind, we'd like to talk to you about Misha. I don't know how much you may know about the situation already."

Sergei shook his head. "He's always seemed…different from the other children. But we've never been sure how or why."

"We thought maybe he'd outgrow it," Sofia added.

"Well," the doctor began slowly, "when we brought him up to the _Enterprise_ yesterday, we ran some initial tests, just the basics, to make sure he didn't have any serious injuries. If our tentative diagnosis is correct, this isn't something he's going to grow out of."

"W-what does he have?" his mother asked, worry written across her face, as she wished that the doctor would just spit it out and get it over with.

"We think it's probably Asperger's Syndrome, a form of high-functioning autism."

"He has autism?" Sergei asked in disbelief, seizing on the one tangible word in what the doctor had said—a frightening word to a parent's ears, all the more so because neither he nor his wife understood entirely what it meant. "What will we do?" he asked. "What **can** we do?"

"It's not definite yet, though I'm fairly confident about it. I wasn't prepared to run the full set of tests under the circumstances; my diagnosis is based only on observed behavior and neurological comparison. If you would like, I can contact the chief medical officer on Starbase 718 and ask him to perform a full diagnosis while you're there; Dr. Trullian is an old friend of mine, very good with children," Dr. Crusher offered. It was the best she could offer them for now.

"If you would, we'd be most grateful. Is there anything we can do, once we have the diagnosis?" Sofia asked.

"You may not need to do anything," Ruthie said quietly, momentarily forgetting the small detail where it was better to explain herself when she said things like that. Fortunately, the doctor came to her rescue.

Dr. Crusher explained. "There **is** a cure for autism," she said, adding in a not-so-trivial detail which Ruthie had neglected, "but you may not want to jump on that idea too fast."

"Why ever not?" Sergei asked in surprise. Surely he should do anything possible, whatever was necessary, to help his child.

"The 'cure' will give you back a 'normal' child—but it won't give you back _your_ child," Ruthie replied.

"What do you mean?" Sofia asked.

Ruthie sighed—how best to explain this? "Autism isn't something that Misha 'has', any more than it is something that I 'have'—it is something that we _are_. If I were not autistic, I would not be the same person. If you change that, you change who your son is as a person—and the change is permanent. There's no going back if you find that you've made a mistake." Mind-blind or not, Ruthie could see the concern etched in the Lyetikovs' faces. "But, having said that—the word autism? It's just a label. It doesn't change who Misha is. He's still the same person he was yesterday, and the same person he'll be tomorrow—a bright, compassionate little boy. You just know more about him now, that's all."

"Are you saying we shouldn't try this cure for our son?" Sergei asked, somewhat confused.

Ruthie sighed. Was she getting across what she was trying to say? "I'm not saying that the cure is never the answer, I'm saying that it's a choice your son needs to make for himself—and a four year old isn't ready to make that choice."

"Forgive me if I'm being too personal, but do you have any children, Lieutenant?" Sofia asked. A mother, she was hoping to get a parent's perspective on the situation.

Ruthie smiled and shook her head. "Not yet. But I hope to, someday."

"If you were told that one of your children were autistic, what would you decide?"

Ruthie considered this for a moment. "Given my genetic background, it's more a question of 'when' than 'if'," she observed. "I will give them the chance to make that choice when they were ready, and until then, I will raise them as well as I know how. I hope that I can teach them to have the strength and self-confidence to accept themselves for who they are, and not who society expects them to be—but they will have my full support, whatever choice they make."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She exchanged a meaningful glance with her husband, and they both nodded. "I think we understand now. We'll let Misha cross that bridge when he comes to it. You must be getting tired of our questions, but—how did you find all this out?"

"When our away team transported down to _Koshka IX_," Dr. Crusher explained, "we found Misha alone and frightened. We couldn't get near him. He hid each time we tried, and covered his ears when we tried to talk to him."

"He was rocking," Ruthie continued, "I expect you've probably seen him doing that when he's upset. Our first officer had seen me get that upset and start rocking earlier in the day and made the connection between the two, so he beamed back up to the ship to see if I could help. I went down to the planet, and got Misha to come to me, instead of the other way around. By then, we suspected that he might be autistic, so it was just a matter of testing that hypothesis. By the way, if you'd like some information about Asperger's Syndrome and autism, I can recommend some good books and articles. There were some very good ones published in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, and I try to keep up with the current publications as well."

"We'd like that very much. Thank you." Sergei sighed. "How _do_ we go about raising an autistic child?"

"Give him a helping hand when he needs it. Help him find ways to deal with the things that overload him, and help him to understand the world he lives in. If you give him room to grow, sooner or later, he'll spread his wings and soar."

"Can we give him what he needs?" Sofia asked.

Ruthie smiled. "I think you can. Misha needs what any child needs—love, patience, and someone to believe in him."

Sergei nodded. "You're right, Lieutenant—we can give him that."


	6. Epilogue: Off to Normal, Never Arriving

**Epilogue**

_Chief Medical Officer's Log: The Lyetikovs have agreed that the cure is not the best plan for their son, at least until he's old enough to decide otherwise for himself. I've now contacted Dr. Trullian on Starbase 718 for a definitive diagnosis. With such supportive parents, I am quite confident that Misha will do very well in the future. Meanwhile, I have also learned of the reason for Lieutenant Green's habit of refusing to admit to injury. In retrospect, I can't say that I'm terribly surprised._

Ruthie and Dr. Crusher left the Lyetikovs' quarters and turned down the corridor. Ruthie smiled. "I'm glad that turned out so well," she said, rubbing her wrist.

"Yes," Dr. Crusher agreed. "I think Misha will do just fine." She turned to look at Ruthie. "Is your wrist bothering you again, Ruthie?"

"I'm okay," Ruthie replied quickly. Rather too quickly, actually.

Dr. Crusher rolled her eyes. "I've heard **that** before, Lieutenant."

"Really," Ruthie insisted. "It's just that Mr. Lyetikov has rather vice-like handshake," she observed wryly.

So that was it. "Hmm…go like this, Ruthie," the doctor requested, flexing her fingers out and then curling them into a fist.

Ruthie complied, somewhat stiffly, before yelping and grabbing her wrist.

"I think you had better come down to sickbay and let me take a look." The doctor's tone implied that this was not a suggestion.

"All right," Ruthie replied resignedly after a moment's hesitation. "Drat," she thought to herself.

"Deck 12," the doctor said as they stepped into the turbolift. The two officers stepped out as the doors hissed open, and turned into sickbay. Dr. Crusher picked up her tricorder as Ruthie hoisted herself up onto the examining table left-handed. "Honestly, Ruthie, why is it such a chore to get you to admit it when you're hurt? As long as you can even nominally still function, you tell me that you're fine."

Ruthie sighed. "I assume you want to know the _real_ reason?"

"Of course."

"I really hate the noise of tricorders," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "It hurts to listen to, and it rings in my ears for an hour afterwards."

"Really?" Dr. Crusher asked, somewhat surprised. "You're the first adult I've met who could hear it." She peered at the readout. 'If I can keep her talking,' she thought to herself, 'maybe the noise won't bother her as much.'

Ruthie shrugged. "The tricorder frequency is high-pitched, but it's not outside the range of normal human hearing. Most people get used to filtering out background noise that they don't need. I can't do that, so I hear things like tricorders."

"How do you filter out background noise when you're trying to hold a conversation in a crowded room, then?"

"I don't." Ruthie raised an eyebrow.

"I see." Dr. Crusher set down her tricorder. "Well, there isn't any further bone damage; the break's healing normally. You probably just bruised a ligament." She picked up a nearby hypospray, checking to be sure that it was the one she wanted. "I'll give you some painkillers to help with that vice-grip handshake."

"Thanks," Ruthie said as Dr. Crusher injected the hypospray into her shoulder. "When can I get back to playing Frisbee on the holodeck?"

"In about a week, probably. But don't try it without seeing me first."

"Great. Looking forward to it."

"Something of an expert, are you?" the doctor asked.

Ruthie broke out laughing as she slid down from the examining table. "No, actually. I'm absolutely horrible at Frisbee, volleyball, and most other sports as well. But I enjoy them, so I play anyway. And on the holodeck, no one gets too upset if I miss a pass. That's actually how I got hurt in the first place—I dove for a pass and landed wrong."

Somehow, Dr. Crusher got the feeling that this wasn't the last time she'd be seeing the young lieutenant for holodeck related injuries. "I'm guessing this isn't the first time, and I doubt it'll be the last, either."

"Right, on both counts, I expect," Ruthie replied.

"If the tricorder bothers you, Ruthie, we could try non-digital diagnostic equipment." Non-digital tools were slower, and somewhat less accurate, but the doctor was willing to sacrifice speed and accuracy, if it would get Ruthie to come to sickbay when she got hurt.

"Thanks, but no thanks. Those are actually worse. Someone actually tried that once. One cold stethoscope, and I jumped so high I just about ended up joining the moon in orbit."

Dr. Crusher resisted the urge to snicker at the mental image of someone joining the moon in orbit. "I guess that's out, then." Her tone became slightly more serious. "But you need to come down here when you're hurt. I **will** pull you off duty, Lieutenant, if that's what it takes to get you to hold still. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes." Dr. Crusher was right of course. Ruthie knew this intellectually. But when she didn't have the energy to deal with the tricorder frequency, it was easier (if not particularly smart) to avoid the situation all together. It had eventually become a habit, so that, unless whatever she had managed do to herself hurt more than the tricorder sound, she would usually grab herself an Egyptian visa and head for the river of Denial. That was one habit which Dr. Crusher was clearly determined to break. Ruthie sighed. No sense trying to dodge this one.

"Glad I made my point." The doctor decided to change the subject. As a Mom, as well as a C. M. O., Dr. Crusher was quite capable of reading the riot act when necessary, but that didn't mean she enjoyed it, any more than her son or her patients did. "Got any big plans on Starbase 718, Ruthie?"

"Yep. Planning to spend some time with my older brother. Nick's stationed there, and we don't see as much of each other as we'd like. Haven't seen him in about three years."

"Sounds good. It's been a crazy couple of days. I'm glad everything's settled back to normal for a little while."

"Definitely," Ruthie agreed. She waved as she left sickbay. "As normal as I'll ever be, at any rate," she muttered to herself as she walked towards the turbolift. "As normal as I'll ever be."


End file.
